Home­stead

Yard high with yar­row, thigh high with silk, un­in­vited to the wed­ding down the road. What they’d call pe­cu­liar, at the punch bowl, gas sta­tion. Queer as un­be­long­ing. Queer as the oak leans and moss in­vites it­self in. We left the city with­out a driver’s li­cense. The roof full of crows. A hive, a coop, a bar­rel of rain.

Slow danc­ing be­tween ap­pe­tiz­ers with my hand on your silk.

They ask us po­litely to leave. Queer as in tres­pass. As in all of god’s crea­tures. Out­side, you can hear a goat open­ing a uni­verse. My sis­ter’s hands on Pluto, turn­ing. There is a black hole thrum­ming in a high school, in a drug­store nearby. No­body gets out of them­selves alive. We look to Venus, count names we can touch. Po­plar, bul­rush, home­stead. Cres­cent, wil­low, dyke. You don’t get to take it with you, the sign reads: you might as well dance now.